


i will follow you into the dark

by myradness



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, also despite the tags this is MOSTLY T rated just some fun spice dashed in occasionally, javi: oh no he's hot, steve: shows up in colombia, the m/f pairing(s) are brief and typically only mentioned in passing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myradness/pseuds/myradness
Summary: He expected his new partner to be a bit wet behind the ears, naive, and more than likely not ready for the wake-up call that was the Colombian cocaine trade. He expected to have to coddle the man. Keep him out of trouble, and more importantly out of the way, until he either learned the ropes or gave up and went back to Miami like a lot of the agents that wound up down here.He had not expected this. Murphy was tall, long lean lines that sauntered over to the entrance where Javier stood, kicking out his feet with every step to stretch legs that had likely been cramped even in a Jeep. He was blonde, hair slicked back a little too much, in a way that when combined with his oversized suit spoke of an awkwardness stemming from a desire to impress. He had a crooked smile as he approached Javier with his hand stretched out in greeting, both self-sure and earnest in a way that was immediately disarming.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Steve Murphy & Javier Peña, Steve Murphy/Javier Peña
Comments: 21
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of notes to start: one, fuck cops. two, yes I do understand that these characters are based off of real people and so fics about this series occupy a...strange space to say the least (although you're here, so I'm sure you're well aware of all this lmao)
> 
> that being said! this fic was borne out of a love of this series, the actors, and an INTENSE need to get my feelings about the characters and their dynamic out of my system. it will generally follow the show's timeline, but with the romance and fluff dialed all the way up :)
> 
> title from the death cab for cutie song of the same name

Colombia had a real way of changing a person. Aging them. Forcing them to bend and adapt to a series of problems that never seemed to go away. Each day, made to wake up and toe a moral line that one never thought they’d have to face, let alone come near. It had been three years since Javier Peña had moved to Colombia to take a new position at the DEA field office in Bogotá, and he had started to feel the weight of that shift in consciousness nearly 18 months ago. Now he was just tired. Fucking exhausted _._

Javier leaned back in the rickety hard plastic chair he was currently occupying and stared absently up at the plaster ceiling, one of the nails valiantly holding his seat together digging into his thigh. He had started taking a good number of his lunches here in the office of Major Horacio Carrillo while on assignment in Medellín, and he savored them. Although he would always be a _gringo_ here— just an American despite the brown of his skin, the language he spoke and his Mexican heritage— the occasional jabs from Carrillo were a welcome respite from the often open hostility from both the Mil Group and the CIA guys back in Bogotá. On some of the darker days of his time in Colombia so far, Javier had felt, or maybe known, that Carrillo was essentially the only person in the entire country that he was able to trust in and rely on with his life. Which, seemingly more often than not, is what was at stake. 

“ _Y además_ ,” Javier shifted his eyes toward Carrillo, who was leaning over his desk, fruitlessly examining aerial images of possible cocaine lab locations. “I’ve got to catch a flight back to the capital tonight. We’ve got a new agent starting in a few days.”

“ _Ah, sí, un otro más gringo_ ,” Carrillo sighed, looking up. “Do you think they’re just sending him down here to reign you in?”

Javier sat back in his chair. Either that or Washington thinks the extra manpower will actually get them somewhere against the narcos. “Who knows. Probably. I guess he made a bit of a name for himself working in Miami, but he hasn’t been an agent for very long. I think shit down here is going to be a rude awakening for him.”

Carrillo finally abandoned the photos, arranging them into a stack before sitting down behind the desk and locking eyes with Javier. “Well, as long as he doesn’t get in our way.”

* * *

Javier rushed into the embassy building a few mornings later filled with anxious energy, his mind racing over the information that both Helena and Suárez had supplied him with the night before. If that many narcos were meeting up in Medellín and were also paying for that many girls to be there, there was a good possibility that some major changes were about to happen amongst the _narcotraficantes_ , and they might be distracted enough to have their guard down. No arrests or busts were going to get approved, the DEA didn’t have enough political influence or solid evidence on any of the men rumored to be attending the meeting, but this was the best chance at getting intel that Javier had gotten in what seemed like months. He rounded the corner to the Ambassador’s office and pushed through the heavy doors, going straight to the assistant’s desk and leaning over the polished wood. 

“Colleen, good morning, you're looking wonderful today and I need a meeting with Noonan as soon as possible,” he rushed out in one breath. “Or now. Now would be good.”

Colleen typed out a few more words on her keyboard before looking up at Javier, accustomed to and unphased by his attempts at flattery. “Oh good, you’re here. She just finished up with a meeting and can probably see you soon but—”

Stepping away from the desk, Javier angled his thumb toward the office and nodded his head. “Perfect, so I’ll just head in then—”

“Your new partner just arrived. The car they sent to pick him up buzzed in through the main entrance right before you came in.”

 _Fuck_ . Now was not the time for this _._ He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Shit. Okay, I’ll—”

Colleen giggled. “Did you forget he was arriving today, Javier?”

“No, I just. Shit.” 

Javier turned and stalked off down the hallway back toward the entrance to the embassy, where the government SUV that had picked up the new agent would be dropping him off. He hadn’t necessarily forgotten about the arrival of his new partner, but the rush of fresh leads and the promise of much needed new intel had pushed any thought of the arrival to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to play both tour guide and babysitter to some fresh-faced idiot who didn't know fuck-all about how things actually worked down here. _Wonderful._

Shouldering through the main entrance to the building, he came to stand at the top of the stairs and watched as the vehicle carrying his new partner rolled to a stop and the passenger door opened up, the man climbing out. 

_Fuck._

Javier hadn’t quite known what to expect from his new partner. He knew that Steve Murphy was young, nearly a decade younger than Javier himself. He knew that Murphy had only been an agent for a few years now, most of his busts had involved marijuana and washed-out rich white boys and hippies involved in small-scale operations and recreational usage. He expected his new partner to be a bit wet behind the ears, naive, and more than likely not ready for the wake-up call that was the Colombian cocaine trade. He expected to have to coddle the man. Keep him out of trouble, and more importantly out of the way, until he either learned the ropes or gave up and went back to Miami like a lot of the agents that wound up down here. 

He had not expected this. Murphy was tall, long lean lines that sauntered over to the entrance where Javier stood, kicking out his feet with every step to stretch legs that had likely been cramped even in a Jeep. He was blonde, hair slicked back a little too much, in a way that when combined with his oversized suit spoke of an awkwardness stemming from a desire to impress. He had a crooked smile as he approached Javier with his hand stretched out in greeting, both self-sure and earnest in a way that was immediately disarming. 

“Javier?” 

He had certainly not been expecting the heat that rushed to his neck at the sound of Murphy’s warm, easy drawl speaking his name. Not a native of Miami then, his accent a bit too lilted to have been from somewhere near the coast; Appalachia, if Javier had to hazard a guess _._

Javier cleared his throat and met Murphy’s eyes, shaking the offered hand. “Yeah, Javier Peña. I take it you’re my new partner then?”

“Yeah.” Steve chuckled, giving a slight squeeze to Javier’s palm. The heat returned to his neck. “Steve Murphy. Nice to meet you.”

Javier had always known and understood his attraction to men. Knew that most people didn’t comprehend it, wouldn’t accept it, and even if they did would never comprehend how he also was equally attracted to women—or potentially any person really. He knew what it meant to be a man who loved men at a time when AIDS was still plaguing the States. Knew what it meant in his line of work amongst the macho bullshit in all government enforcement agencies, and the added danger it could bring as a DEA agent in a foreign country with an already high price on his head. Javier had decided in his early days as an agent to keep quiet about this part of himself, maintaining an immensely private life outside of work. It had worked well for him. The whole “lone-wolf” schtick brought an air of authority that helped get shit done. Kept people out of the way. For a while it was even easy while he was engaged to Lorraine, sweet _kind_ Lorraine, but that only lasted as long as the relationship did. Then it was back to clandestine meetings in the backs of bars with men who likely wouldn't remember much about him the next morning. 

Since moving to Colombia, Javier had decided to avoid men— and relationships— in that capacity altogether, opting for hookups with the same women that the narcos frequented. It was safer this way. Easier. Sure it was slightly embarrassing, demoralizing even, to have to pay for sex with these women, but it was also a sure and steady thing. Knowing the locations of all the most frequented _prostíbulos_ in the city was both helpful for the job and maintained his reputation with the guys at the embassy, and lots of the girls gave good information— sometimes good enough to earn them a signature from the Ambassador on their visas to a better life in America. It was a win-win in Javier’s book. 

Three years of hyper-careful distancing, of building a protective shell around himself, and in the last thirty seconds, Javier could feel a small crack form. Small, but extant. _Shit_.

Another deep breath. “ _Bienvenidos a Colombia_.” Letting go of Steve’s hand he turned back toward the building’s entrance. “C’mon. I’ll show you where everything is and then we’ve got a meeting with the Ambassador,” he added over his shoulder. 

Murphy smiled. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Steve followed Peña around the twisting hallways of the American embassy building, taking in as much of the hasty tour as possible. There were the other DEA agents— technically his bosses, maybe, Steve wasn't quite clear on the details— who sat reading files with their feet up on the desk, looking pissed at Peña’s mention of new information that would be arriving. A quick trip down the hall brought them to a room that looked more like the control room for a NASA launch than office space in an embassy building in South America. 

Peña sauntered up to the closest desk and came to a stop. “Jarheads, this is Murphy.” The men looked up from where they were sitting in their crisp military uniforms, their eyes flitting between the two agents with an air of apprehension. Peña glanced back to where Steve was standing, hands in his pockets. “Murphy, this is Mil group. They advise the Colombian military on communist threats in the countryside.”

 _Ah._ So that explained all the fancy computers, close-cropped haircuts, and obvious sticks up asses. 

Peña leaned forward, swiping one of the folders stacked on the desk. “Hey, those are classified!”

He kept his head down, quickly flipping through the pages and scanning the documents. “Now they’re declassified.”

“That’s the ambassador’s call.”

“No problem,” Peña grumbled, closing up the file and holding it out to the man, only to yank it away and toss it haphazardly back on the pile when the official moved to reach for it. In the background, Steve chuckled. This guy was a fucking asshole. _Perfect_.

The rest of the day was a bit of a whirlwind for Steve, filled with his first meeting with Ambassador Noonan, where he learned he’d be going with Peña to Medellín to follow a lead he’d received that a bunch of kingpins would be having a joint meeting; and later, said trip. The subsequent flight and bumpy car ride left Steve rattled by the time they reached the Carlos Holguín School, the local base of operations for the Colombian National Police, the next morning. He had thought that the roads were awful in his native Tennessee, but those were like butter compared to the dirt roads here. God bless Eisenhower, presumably. 

The shared trip did little in the way of divulging more about his new partner. Peña was quiet most of the way, if not gruff, flipping on the radio to a station playing _cumbia_ the minute they got into the Jeep. If Steve had to hazard a guess he was probably uncomfortable, unused to sharing this space with someone else, and frustrated to have to work a new agent into the fold while also running interference between the CNP and his informant, all while investigating the biggest break the DEA had gotten in a while down here. That was fine. Steve didn’t need niceties. He was a big boy, could take care of himself. He was here to get a job done—put an end to the source of all the suffering he and Connie had witnessed in Miami— and he was going to fucking do it. 

* * *

Javier leaned against the guard rail that ran alongside the _salsamentaria_ outside of the hospital that they had driven Helena to, chain-smoking and numbly sipping the bottle of _Quilmes_ that Carrillo had bought for him. The day had been incredibly difficult to get through and nearly ended disastrously. 

They had luckily been able to secure a front-facing room at the hotel where the narcos were having their meeting and had spent the entire afternoon watching car after car roll up and the most deadly, rich, and powerful men quite possibly in the world step out of them. Imported European cars: Porsches, Mercedes, all bought with money stained with the blood of both Americans and Colombians alike. It was an overwhelming sensation, watching these men that he had heard about through an endless chain of reports and informants all under the same roof, interacting with an ease that betrayed the fact that they were unaware they were being watched. Luckily so, because if Javier were to take his sight and thoughts off of the narcos, he would have had to take note of the way that he and Murphy were pressed closely together to be able to see out of the thin hotel window, the heat seeping through the denim where the sides of their thighs were meeting. 

Javier had also had to reign in Carrillo most of the day, whose desperation and inability to act knowing that every single one of the men he had been hunting for the past number of years were all under one roof, added with his annoyance of allowing yet another _gringo_ into the fray was resulting in thinly-veiled hostility aimed at Murphy. “ _Carne fresca_ ,” he had called him. Fresh meat. Which wasn't necessarily untrue, but could be easily misconstrued if Murphy were to work out the translation. Javier understood Carrillo’s raw desire to storm the entire building, regardless of consequences or manpower. He did. But he didn't have the time to deal with added complications today. 

Things went fully off the rails when Helena failed to show at the agreed time, which almost immediately worried Javier. She was smart, too smart to run, and too smart to be caught outright unless she had pushed too hard to get solid enough information to earn her a visa, a thought which settled dark and ugly in his stomach. He waited alongside Carrillo and Murphy for nearly an hour past the scheduled meeting, pacing around the SUV they had parked outside of a nearby church to relieve the building adrenaline.

Carrillo stood, legs wide and hands braced on his hips. “They’re telling me the girl left a long time ago. She's already dead,” he said detachedly, clearly unswayed by the danger their informant had succumbed to, fine to let the chips fall where they may. 

Javier looked around, rubbing the spot on his shoulder where his anxiety was slowly manifesting itself. “No, they wouldn’t kill her at the hotel.”

“Then they killed her somewhere else. She knew the risks.” But nobody ever _understands_ what that risk truly means. Helena had taken this opportunity to try and earn a better life for herself and her child. Javier knew better than to think that their affairs had been what kept her coming back, but regardless, she had always been kind and gentle with him. She had always _trusted_ him— a rare commodity in his life— and he didn’t want that trust to have been misplaced. This was the difficulty of involving oneself with informants: objectivity was difficult to maintain under moments of stress. 

“If we’re going back, we go back now,” Murphy added from where he was sprawled across the hood of the Jeep.

Javier shifted slowly to meet Murphy’s gaze and was reminded that this was the man’s first full day on the job in a foreign country where every DEA agent had a standing price on their head. Something he likely wasn’t even aware of yet. Murphy had trusted Javier as his partner and guide with little fuss, despite being taken halfway across the country and thrown into a joint operation with the CNP. He wanted to earn the trust that Murphy and Helena had shown him. 

He turned and immediately grabbed Carrillo to go and track down Helena, leaving Murphy safe with Carrillo’s men. “You stay here in case she shows up,” he yelled back to where his partner was still leaning, looking dazed. “We’re gonna go find her.”

They had been able to find Helena in time, but after seeing her bruised and battered body on the dirty mattress in the corner of the _caleta_ , it didn’t feel like much of a win. Javier shifted, feeling his cigarette starting to burn his fingers, and tossed it on the pavement to stamp it out. He pulled out another, having lost count after his fifth, and pointedly did not meet Carrillo’s gaze from where he was leaning back in a plastic chair outside of the entrance to the shop. During the daytime, people might sit here on their breaks, sipping cold drinks from the store and chatting while their children played in the road. What a stark contrast the night can bring. 

On the other side of the road where the police trucks were parked, another SUV pulled up and rolled to a stop. The sounds of slamming doors could be heard as the men piled out. 

“Where the fuck’s Peña? _¿Dondé está Peña?_ ” came a rushed voice, loud over the other murmuring policemen who were happy simply to have made it through another day. 

_“Por allá.”_

Javier turned to see Murphy hurriedly stalking toward where he and Carrillo were sitting. He took a long final drag of the cigarette he was holding and threw it to the ground as Javier shifted his body back away from the road, unable to meet his partner’s eyes. 

Murphy strode up to Javier, his voice clipped. “How is she?”

“Sedated.”

“She gonna be okay?”

“Physically, yeah.” Javier breathed out another puff of smoke, keeping his head down. Helena’s wounds would heal and she would be given medicine to help block the pain she was in. But you don’t just bounce back after an encounter with _sicarios_ like the one she had just had. He had seen other cops, experienced agents shaken to their core after run-ins with the cartel— let alone a civilian. “Mentally, I haven’t got a fucking clue.”

Murphy paused for a moment, taking that in. He kicked at the small pile of cigarette butts that had accumulated next to Javier’s boot and then straightened to his full height. “You left me behind on purpose.”

“Look, man—”

“If we’re gonna be partners, I don’t get left behind,” the tone of his voice forced Javier to meet Murphy’s eyes. His face was pallid, washed out by the yellowed fluorescent light pouring from the shop window, stark against the black of the night around them. But there was a spark in his eyes. A fury that demanded attention and spoke of desperation and dedication that Javier hadn’t noticed before and hadn't expected out of his new partner. _That’ll happen when you avoid interaction_. “I didn’t come all the way down here, Peña, to sit on the fucking sidelines,” he spat. “Whatever’s going on here,” he glanced between Javier and where Carrillo was perched and then fully turned toward his partner, stepping in close. Close enough to smell the stale sweat from the day, the tobacco on his breath. “I’m in all the way. Is that understood?”

Javier took a deep drag of his cigarette, angling his head to blow the smoke while maneuvering his way around Murphy’s broad frame. “Understood,” he breathed, reaching for and handing Murphy the last of his beer, likely warm by now. “I hope you know what that means.”

He watched as Murphy brought the bottle to his lips and took a sip, maintaining their eye contact, standing his ground. Javier felt the heat from the day before return to the back of his neck. 

_God, I need some fucking sleep._

* * *

Javier arrived home a few hours later, having caught a red-eye flight back to Bogotá with Murphy. He lingered at the embassy for a little while to send off the reports they had written up on the plane and to clear his head, calling a cab for the other man as all the other embassy staff who could have given him a ride had long since gone home. He finally wrapped up sometime later and made his way back to his apartment, heading straight for bed the moment he keyed open the door. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots and jeans, pulled his shirt over his head, and slipped on a pair of loose boxers to sleep in before all but collapsing on the mattress. He expected sleep to come quickly after the day’s events, but it did not. Instead, his mind raced, replaying the conversation he’d had with Murphy over and over. 

_I’m in all the way. Is that understood?_ That had been the last thing that Murphy had said to him for the rest of the night, aside from any necessary conversation, apparently content to let Javier stew over his actions. And stew Javier had. 

The thing was that for all of his lone wolf posturing— something that was borne out of necessity but had become a comfortable shell to hide behind— Colombia had made Javier crave closeness. The constant string of losses of life and battles against the narcos had made a sense of grief and loneliness settle deep in his bones that was becoming ever-difficult to shoulder alone. The regular string of girls that Javier kept were fun, sure, and good for work as well, but the moment they were finished would grab their bag and leave like clockwork. In their absence, the full weight of isolation would hit and nearly outweigh the entire enterprise. 

Helena had been different. She was always so sweet and so kind. Would sit and talk and laugh with Javier, ask him about work, or tell him about whatever new milestone her kid had passed like a friend might, even though she was really only there for a fuck and to slip him information. She would kiss him before leaving, like someone who actually cared. 

When Helena had turned up missing after the hotel meeting Javier had panicked, afraid of losing what increasingly felt like one of his last human connections. His panic had bled into his treatment of Murphy, unwilling to increase his potential body count for that night to two, and if he was honest with himself, wanting to shield the man from the horrors of the job. Unwilling to carry the blame of setting yet another agent on the path that Javier himself was careening down. 

But that wasn’t fair, wasn’t Javier’s choice to make. Steve had more than proven himself as a worthy partner, ready to roll with the punches that were thrown at him from the start. When Javier had left him behind to go search for Helena, he had expected little fuss about the decision, relief even, to be kept away from the danger they were assuredly walking into. But there was a barely-restrained fury in Murphy’s eyes when he later confronted Javier. It was a righteous anger that Javier recognized because he had felt it himself countless times over the past three years. He knew that Murphy had lost his partner while on a bust in Miami. He wondered what else the cocaine trade had taken from him.

Javier rolled onto his back, resolving himself to clean up his act with Murphy, and let the man do the work he had come to Colombia for. Let his abilities have a chance to speak for themselves. 

He brought his arm up and rubbed his eyes and then rested his hand on his stomach, lightly scratching there. Despite the tired ache of his body and resolution of the day’s events, Javier’s brain still felt like a livewire with residual anxieties struggling to fade away. He let his hand slide down to palm himself through his boxers for a few moments, and then slipped his fingers underneath the band. There was one surefire way of tiring himself out.

He ran his hand down along the inside of his thigh and then back up to grip at the base of his cock, savoring the rough tug of a too-dry palm as he slid his hand along the length. He was already half-hard, his body apparently just as eager as his mind was to rid itself of pent-up energy.

Allowing his eyes to drift closed, Javier tried to conjure up images of one of the last girls he had paid for time with. He slid his fist to the end of his cock and used his index finger to gather the precome that had begun to gather at the slit, shuddering as he moved to coat his length in one long downstroke. 

Vanessa had been fun, even though she hadn’t had any new information on the _sicarios_ that frequented the brothel she worked in. She was everything Javier enjoyed in a woman: long and lean, with a softness that smoothed out her frame. He loved being able to grab onto her ass while she bounced in his lap, or run his fingers over her soft belly as he fucked into her slowly. That night she had arrived with an agenda, quickly stripping his clothes and pushing him down onto the leather couch the minute she arrived. She had stayed clothed herself, kneeling astride him and grabbing a fistful of his curls. She pulled hard, tilting his head back and looking down at him while instructing Javier to finger her open. When she decided he had done enough she rocked her hips down, riding him hard and fast while whispering absolute filth in his ear as he bit into her shoulder to stave off coming for as long as he could. “So _good_ , baby. You fill me up so well, Javier.”

Tonight he didn't bother trying to hold off, his hand moving rapidly over his cock and his hips raising off of the mattress in half-thrusts to match the pace. His other hand ran over his neck and chest before moving down to pull at his balls, and a whine caught in his throat. 

When Javier’s whimpers and groans had become a near-constant moan and the hands on her hips had begun to shake, Vanessa had pulled off of his length, causing him to curse. She wrapped her slender fingers around him and jerked him off mercilessly. Her other hand settled firmly under his jaw and forced his chin upward to meet her gaze. “Are you gonna come, _cariño_?”

Javier squeezed his eyes shut, and then suddenly it was Murphy’s hand on his cock mercilessly wringing him toward orgasm, sporting the same calloused roughness that only builds up from gripping a gun as his own. It was Murphy’s husky drawl that was whispering, demanding, in his ear _come for me Javier_ , against which he stood no chance. His senses turned to static and his entire body contracted as he came harder than he could remember in a long time. 

It took him a few moments and heavy breathing to come back down before the full weight of what had just happened registered. 

_Fuck_. 

Heaving himself out of bed, Javier ambled to the bathroom off of the bedroom and wet a washcloth to wipe down his stomach before washing his hands. Leaning down, he let the cold water pool in his hands and splashed it over his face, then looked up to meet his reflection in the mirror. What the _fuck_ was his problem, getting off to the thought of his new partner? He turned and dried his hands on a towel hanging on the back of the door and returned to bed, slipping his boxers back on. Sighing, Javier rolled onto his side and shoved his arm under one of the pillows. He knew that the loneliness of the job had been fraying his nerves as of late and that Murphy was a new— and handsome— face, but he normally had more control over himself. 

For the second time that night, Javier resolved to do and be better with Murphy, and also to call one of the girls this weekend to blow off some apparently much-needed steam. 

* * *

Javier dragged himself out of bed a few hours later, absolutely exhausted but resolved to get to the office early so he could settle into the day and get his bearings before Murphy arrived. He showered in the coldest water he could stand as quickly as he could, then dressed in his usual jeans and button-up, pulling on a jacket. He stopped off in the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee and drank it black, savoring the burn on his throat and the promise of caffeine in his system. He didn’t bother with breakfast, opting instead to grab some _arepas_ from the little stand near the embassy on his drive into work as a peace offering and silent apology for his partner. Javier wasn't quite sure how he was planning on facing Murphy later but figured that a few hours of quiet plus a gift of greasy, starchy food was a step toward absolving his myriad of sins from the day before. 

He arrived at the embassy building not long after, grabbing the bag of food from the passenger seat and wrapping it up tight to keep fresh before walking inside. As far as he could tell, he was one of the first ones there that morning. He nodded to the handful of other early arrivals he saw shuffling through the corridor or hunched over desks, but no one stopped to chat. Whether they were there to get ahead of schedule or for reasons similar to Javier, people who arrived at work at this time knew to generally steer clear of one another until the day truly started. 

Reaching the DEA offices at the end of the hall, Javier strode up to his desk and tossed the greasy bag onto its surface. He turned, setting his hands on his hips, and surveyed the disorganized mess of the small room, resolving himself to clear off one of the desks currently operating as space for file overflows for his partner to use. As he moved to grab one of the cardboard boxes stacked along the wall, he glanced into the adjoining meeting room. There was Murphy, standing in front of a large whiteboard, taping up pieces of paper. Slightly dumbfounded, Javier straightened and grabbed the bag of food before shuffling over to the next room, mouth agape and brows furrowed. 

As he entered the room and took in the scene before him— rolls of film on the table, piles of pictures, and news clippings were strewn about— Murphy turned around. “Welcome to the Medellín cartel,” he smiled, looking proud. 

Javier smirked and stepped forward. On the whiteboard was a chart detailing all of the drug lords and _sicarios_ they had seen at the hotel meeting, aligned to show their relation to the hierarchy. Murphy must’ve been working on this all night, getting the shots from the day before developed, compiling files, and coming to the conclusion that they, along with Carrillo, had witnessed the formation of a super cartel. Who knows how long he had then been in this office, organizing all the information and taping everything up on the board. Once again, exceeding Javier’s expectations. 

He moved in close and grabbed the red pen that was inside of Murphy’s chest pocket, shifted to cross out the men that had either been taken out or apprehended by Carrillo, replaced the cap, and then slid the pen back where it had been. Murphy met Javier’s eyes and smiled, and despite his mussed hair and the tie over his shoulder, his eyes were bright. He looked a bit like a puppy that way: happy and proud of the work he had done. 

Javier shifted his weight and handed Murphy the bag of food he had brought for him, returning the smile with a grin of his own. “Good work, partner.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a posting timeline set as I am a masters student trying to complete a degree in a pandemic (ahaha aaaaaaah) but I expect this to be a handful of chapters, and I will publish them as I finish! also this is my first fic (and first non-academic writing in probably a decade, so I would appreciate feedback on anything— formatting, tags, characterization, etc. 
> 
> also, I tried to only use spanish where the meaning of words could be perceived or were used in the show...but I can add translations if you'd like? just let me know.
> 
> thanks for reading!! see ya next chapter :))


	2. Chapter 2

It was only a few days later that Murphy received his first wake-up call to the realities of his new position and the place he now lived. 

Javier made it into work early that morning. He had recently learned that Murphy and his wife Connie lived in the apartment above him— not altogether too strange of an occurrence, as their whole block was almost entirely composed of American federal agents— and decided to start coming in to work around an hour earlier than before. He and Murphy already spent so much of their time together that Javier felt this was a necessary step in maintaining a healthy level of separation between himself and his partner. There was no need for him to see Connie send off Murphy in the mornings, cupping his face and pulling him in for a kiss on the cheek. He didn’t need to add on a misplaced sense of jealousy (of Connie, or of Murphy who was lucky enough to come home to someone who loved and cared for him, he wasn’t quite sure) to the list of potentially detrimental emotions he harbored in regards to this man. Javier had a self-destructive streak a mile wide: he definitely drank too much whiskey, would take point on raids with nothing more than a tac vest, hell, the entire move to Bogotá had been his answer to leaving Lorraine at the altar. But, he did have a limit. Although a line in the sand was by definition, ever-changing. 

Two indulgences that would never approach his limit were cigarettes and coffee. Javier sat behind his desk, leaning on one elbow and reading a file on the latest political movements that Pablo Escobar— easily the largest Colombian trafficker and self-proclaimed (but undisputed) leader of the newly-formed Medellín cartel— had been making. In his other hand, he precariously gripped his third cup of coffee and _first_ cigarette of the day. Little victories. 

The quiet calm he had carved out for himself in a building of agents trying to climb their respective political ladders was soon disrupted by the shuffle of Murphy’s thick-soled boots across the linoleum and his bag being dumped on his desk unceremoniously. Javier found a secret hilarity in those boots. They were slightly too tailored to the appeals of a retired accountant to be fashionably chunky, and thick rubber on the bottom made the man tower even higher than he normally would over people. A humorous contrast to the fashionably oversized polos and jeans that his partner typically wore, they betrayed the man’s blue-collar upbringing and practicality. “They’ve got good support,” Murphy always said, matter-of-factly. _What a dork_.

Javier’s quiet chuckle was interrupted by Murphy throwing a Polaroid onto his desk, then turning around and slumping into his own chair. He breathed out heavily, reaching into the inner pocket of the leather sport coat he was wearing, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one unceremoniously. He took a couple of deep drags, angling the smoke up at the ceiling before lowering his chin and meeting Javier’s confused stare. 

Javier held up the polaroid. “What the fuck is this?”

Murphy breathed out another large cloud of smoke and rubbed at his temple with his free hand. His foot tapped impatiently on the ground. “Connie and I came home last night to our front door wide open, and when we went inside it was hanging in the front room. Nothing else was disturbed or missing, just this.”

Javier sighed, taking in the shot of the poor dead cat. He saw a lot of awful things in his line of work, but violence toward animals always struck a nerve with him. You had to be particularly sadistic to carry out something like this. “I’m more of a dog man myself, “ he said grimly, peeking back at where Murphy was still smoking at a furious pace, “but no cat deserves this.”

He fully turned and faced his partner, brows furrowed. “Did you tell anyone about why you were down here? Anyone in passing, or maybe you or Connie mentioned it to someone on the plane? Maybe you dropped a wallet?”

“‘Course not.”

“Not to get personal, but have you had any…encounters,” Javier asked, tilting his head.

“Encounters?” Murphy parroted, his voice breaking slightly. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m married.” Javier held back a laugh, and Murphy continued on, rolling his eyes. “Only people I’ve _encountered_ outside the DEA and my wife are those Colombian cops in Medellín.”

Javier shook his head. “Carrillo is solid.” Carrillo might have harbored some animosity toward Murphy, but that was mostly because he was wary of Americans, and American interference, like the majority of Colombians. He appreciated the help that the DEA gave him, considered Javier a friend, but hated the way the war against the narcos that he fought in and lost men to every day was seen as a political agenda and not the tragedy it truly was. He knew that Carrillo would never put someone on their side of things in danger, however. His hate of the narcos ran too deep to ever worry about him turning or selling anyone out. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Murphy cursed in realization under his breath as he moved to tap his cigarette. “My passport. I had to hand over my passport at the airport to get Puff through immigration. We were held up for a good couple of hours.”

Blinking, Javier stared up at Murphy who had moved to grab a paper cup of water from the cooler on the other side of their office room. “Puff?”

He paused while filling the cup to look at Javier and smirked, “I didn’t name it, dude.”

Javier sighed and picked the Polaroid back up, eyeing the grisly scene in the image. “Traffickers pay people at the airport for intel. A _gringo_ coming in from Miami raises suspicions. That's how you got made. If you didn’t already, you’ve got a price on your head now.”

Steve stopped in the middle of the room where he had been pacing while sipping on his water. His eyes were wide and a bit of hair had come loose from where the rest was held back with product and had fallen to his forehead. Javier had the urge to smooth it back. “A fucking price on my head?” He rubbed his eyes and ran his hand down his face. “Connie was barely able to sleep last night. She mentioned this morning wanting to move back to Miami. How the hell am I supposed to calm her down knowing that shit?”

“Don’t let it rattle you, man. That’s what they want. Nobody’ll take the bounty anyway after what happened to Kiki,” Javier assured him. They both paused, remembering the Mexican DEA agent who had died so violently at the hands of the Guadalajara cartel that the intensity of Uncle Sam’s response had forever warned narcos off of targeting American agents worldwide. Javier picked back up the cigarette he had put down when Murphy handed him the Polaroid and thoughtfully took a deep drag of it. He understood deeply the stress that his partner was currently under. Sure, everyone who worked down here knew the risks of the job and liked to think they were prepared for the worst, but it was always a wake-up call to have a run-in with a _sicario_ like this. To be fully aware of how deeply ingrained the narcos were into every aspect of the country around them. However, he also knew that while they were largely safe from any real threat, it was always good to reinforce the capabilities of the DEA in case any of the men they were after started feeling lucky.

Javier had resolved himself after that first disastrous night with Murphy that he would let his partner find his way as an agent and wouldn’t sideline him, but this was something that couldn’t be ignored. Leaving him to be babysat by cops was one thing, but keeping hitmen away from their apartment building was much more warranted. They had largely patched things back up since the confrontation in Medellín, but maybe he could prove his commitment to his partner and reinforce Murphy’s trust in him by getting to the bottom of who had fired this warning shot. 

He didn’t expect much in the way of help from either his contacts in the local police or from the Ambassador for that matter— this was just a cat, after all— but Javier was going to see this through. At the very least, they might pick up some new intel. “I’ve got some favors to call in, we can do some poking around and we’ll get the asshole who did this,” Javier announced, holding up the photograph and meeting Murphy’s eye from where he now leaned against the wall. “This cat is DEA. Mark my words, it will get justice.”

* * *

Steve pulled to the side of the street outside of the restaurant that Peña pointed out from where he was stretched out in the passenger seat of the SUV, shifted the gear into park, and turned off the behemoth. Over the past couple of weeks he had noticed that while his partner was a rather quiet and private man, he always seemed to take up a lot of space with his body. He would push aside files to sit on the corner of Steve’s desk while they discussed new intelligence that had come in, spread his arms wide and bend at the waist to lean over maps of the _comunas_ they knew Escobar was running his phony businesses out of, or like now, would sprawl his limbs in every direction while riding in the seat of a car. Leaned back, one knee near the door handle, another near the clutch, an arm gripping onto the back of the driver’s seat while the other was bent at the elbow to tap a cigarette out of the crack in the window. Steve found it funny for both of these traits to be housed inside one man. He looked self-sure, relaxed but eyes sharp— almost feline despite his insistence on being a “dog man”. It reminded Steve how long Peña had been down here in the thick of things. That kind of ease only came from having your back pressed against the wall too many times to count.

He breathed out a quiet laugh and watched as his partner climbed out of the seat, slammed the door shut, and leaned back in through the open window, eyeing Steve through the yellow tint of his sunglasses. “What are you laughing at, _pendejo_ , let’s get a move on.”

Steve climbed out of the vehicle and tried to subtly stretch his legs as he moved toward the entrance of the building. Peña sidled up to him and leaned in as they walked, pulling off and folding his sunglasses away. “I’m going to warn you now that this guy is a real piece of shit. Local cop that has regular dealings in Medellín, always gives solid information, but works both sides and doesn’t try to hide it. A real slimy son of a bitch.” He paused and looked up, serious, other than the twitch of his lip. “He also fucking hates _gringos_.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, yeah. So business as usual, then.”

“Good boy.” He clapped him on the shoulder, “now you’re getting the hang of things.” Peña smirked back at him as he pushed through the entrance to the restaurant. 

Steve followed him to a table near the back of the main room that was occupied by a man sipping on a single beer. He looked around, taking in the decor. The room was well, loud. Photographs and hanging baskets filled nearly every empty space on the walls, there was an old jukebox at the far end of the room, and a handful of Colombian flags hung from the ceiling. The restaurant was also quite busy as well, most of the tables filled with men seemingly on their lunch breaks. The nature of their conversation could be easily hidden amongst the noise, although, Steve mused, it was unlikely anyone who solely worked for the cartel would be taking their lunch at the same place where a bunch of cops also did, dirty or not. 

Steve slid onto the bench next to Peña, then moved to give the man some more room, as the table was small and the sides of their bodies were in full contact with one another. The move, however, just caused Peña to spread out more. _What a dick._

Their informant, Suárez, he later learned, folded his hands together and leaned forward, solely addressing Peña. _“A ver, ¿entonces estás aquí por un gato?”_ He looked like he was holding back annoyance, pointedly not looking in Steve’s direction.

Peña hunched forward, pointing a finger onto the table to punctuate his words. _“No es un gato cualquiera. Es un gato gringo de la DEA.”_

Steve watched as Suárez scoffed, apparently amused at what his partner had just said. He leaned in and murmured to Peña, “What’s he saying?”

“I’m telling him about the cat,” he whispered back. 

The two men went back and forth, Peña looking more serious as Suárez’s lazy smirk grew wider. Steve ran his hand over his mustache. Even without knowing that this guy regularly sold intel to the cartel, it was easy to tell he was a real piece of work. Only the money-hungry and loose-moraled smiled like that. 

Finally, Suárez turned to Steve and nodded his head toward where Peña sat. _“Su amigo está medio loco."_

Steve furrowed his brows, shaking his head. _“No hablo español, amigo._ I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Suárez immediately leaned toward Steve, causing him to lean in as well as to not miss any potential information. _“Yo no hablo inglés,”_ he whispered loudly when their heads were close. 

Steve pulled back and looked at his partner, starting to become increasingly confused and annoyed with how this meeting was playing out. “What the fuck is he saying?”

“They don’t like cats in this country,” Peña answered, his irritation coloring his voice. Then paused to flash a small smile at Steve, disarming. 

Steve breathed out, briefly closing his eyes. Peña had warned him that Suárez was likely going to be difficult. Now wasn’t the time to let his mounting anxiety over the whole situation rear its head. Best to just let him handle things. “Tell me about it.”

Peña continued his exchange with the cop, then shifted to lean his weight on one hip and reached into his back pocket to fish out his wallet. He paused, pulled out a stack of American bills, folded them, and slid the stack toward Suárez. _“Averigua,”_ he commanded, voice dropping low. 

While Suárez pocketed the bills, nodding, Peña pulled out a pen and a sheet of paper from the inside of his coat and, clicking the pen, laid the document on the table in front of the other man to sign. 

Steve had to shift his entire body to hide the amusement he knew was clear on his face. He coughed into his shoulder and inclined his head. “Is that a D-103?”

“Yup,” Peña answered, pointing out the couple of boxes that Suárez needed to sign.

“Let me get this straight,” Steve paused. “You’ve gotta pay this cop off for information, then you gotta get a _receipt?”_

Peña looked up, indignant. “I gotta get reimbursed.”

Steve shook his head and coughed to mask the laugh that bubbled out. He stood, sensing that the meeting with Suárez was nearly finished, and clapped Peña on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he announced before heading back toward the entrance. 

Squinting against the sun, Steve ducked through the doorway and crossed the short distance to the Jeep, then climbed into the driver’s seat. He leaned over the center console to grab the pack of cigarettes he knew Peña kept there, and as he was lighting one, his partner exited the restaurant and slid into the passenger’s seat. He watched as Peña returned to his previously sprawled position. “So, who the hell was that?” 

Peña sighed and sunk further back into the worn leather of the seat. “That,” he paused, eyeing the carton in Steve's hand and leaned to snatch it away, “was one of my informants, Suárez.” He returned the cigarettes to the glove compartment before continuing. “Like I said before, he’s a local cop, not CNP, but is high enough ranking that he does work both here and in Medellín. His intel is always good since half of it comes from Escobar himself,” he muttered, eyeing Steve. “But he’ll tell anyone whatever they need to know as long as they can pay.”

“So he’ll just play both sides whenever he’s able, as long as he reaps the reward. How do you know he isn’t just telling you what you want to hear?”

Peña paused in thought and pulled his sunglasses back out of his front pocket, donning them. “He knows if his information is shit he’ll be out of a paycheck from Uncle Sam, worse if he gets caught out by Escobar.” He looked to Steve. “He has contacts with the security forces at the airport, and he’ll be able to get the immigrations people who held you up at the border in for questioning so we can figure out who paid them for your information.”

Steve nodded in acknowledgment, shoved the keys into the ignition, and pulled back out onto the road, heading for the Embassy. He couldn’t stand people like Suárez. The line between good and bad was already blurred enough without people like him actively working to further muddle things. People like him whose only skin in the game was the thickness of his wallet, who didn’t give a shit about the people in the _comunas_ or on the streets of Miami succumbing to the violence of the cocaine trade. It made his blood boil. 

Steve rolled his neck, feeling anger start to rise icy hot up his spine, and forced himself to take a deep breath, angling his head to hide the movement from Peña. He flipped the indicator and turned onto the main road. “Well,” he breathed, “I’ll let you handle all the dealings with him. You were really right about the whole _gringo_ thing.” His partner chuckled beside him. “How come he gives you a pass?”

“Well, I have been down here for a couple of years now,“ Peña reasoned, smoothing over his mustache. He paused for a moment and then smirked at Steve. “It also helps that I’m not a white boy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve rolled his eyes, a small grin forcing its way to his face. _Asshole._ “Let’s just get you back to the Embassy so you can watch the phone and get your money.”

* * *

The call from Suárez came a day or two later, saying that he had tracked down the officials at the airport and had brought them to the local precinct for questioning. Javier immediately went to find Murphy and pulled him away from sorting through files so that they could go and question the men themselves. 

He had been surprised how easily Murphy went along with the questioning. Suárez was unpredictable in moments like this, quiet and demure one moment and violent the next. He had expected his partner to balk at the treatment of the airport officials, but he had actually seemed pleased, nodding along as more information was pried from the two men. Javier was pleased too, having anticipated from the beginning that this investigation would have run into walls. Luckily it had been payday recently so he had a little extra cash to bribe Suárez with, knowing that their usual fee agreement wouldn’t have been enough to spur the man into action over a dead pet. Even if it had been killed as a warning to a DEA agent. 

They eventually found out that the immigration agent was contracted by a man who went by the name _Poison,_ who they knew to be one of Escobar’s top enforcers— nearly one of the kingpins himself. Javier called Carrillo in Medellín and had him cross-reference the name in the CNP’s wiretap records. They were able to pick up chatter from him and other _sicarios_ that Escobar had instructed a handful of men to make the trip from Medellín to Bogotá the next day, for reasons still unknown. But, it was enough to take to the Ambassador to get approval for a larger joint operation with Carrillo. If they could intercept Poison along the route— there were stretches of terrain between the two cities that were rough enough to only allow for one road to pass through and were far enough away from large amounts of civilian activity— Carrillo would get to put away a top target and the DEA could reinforce their untouchability. Not to mention, there was always the potential for new intel, and access to a lead _sicario_ for the Medellín cartel could give rise to many new leads. 

He and Murphy were able to schedule an emergency meeting with Noonan early the next morning, the three of them crowded around the whiteboard that had been laid out to show the cartel’s chain of leadership. 

“Alright boys,” Noonan sighed, crossing her arms and inclining her head toward the board. “What have you got for me?”

Javier shuffled his feet, rubbing his palms together and glancing at Murphy before starting. He pointed to the image of _Poison_ , right below that of Escobar. “According to CNP wiretaps, the _sicario_ “Poison” was recorded saying he was driving to Bogotá this afternoon. For what purpose, we don’t know. But,” he met his partner’s eye before looking back to the Ambassador, “if we don’t respond to the obvious threat to Agent Murphy we’re sending the wrong message.”

“Police have the information, they should make the arrest,” Noonan responded airily.

Javier nearly laughed, then felt his frustration and blood pressure rise instantaneously. _Suárez_ was the police. Anyone local always had to be ruled out, either too driven by greed or fear of the cartel to assume there would be any level of secrecy maintained in a police-led undertaking. “No. No, if we leave it to them, someone will sell us out. The narcos have informants in their department,” he insisted, punctuating his words with his hand. 

Murphy then stepped in, likely sensing the exasperation rapidly rising in his Javier. “What Peña’s driving at,” he explained, slow and smooth, “is that Major Carrillo should man a roadblock.”

Javier pointed in agreement with Murphy and resettled his hands on his hips. “We can trust Carrillo.”

“I don’t have authority over the Colombian Police,” Noonan retorted, shaking her head. 

Javier shifted on his hip, scoffing as he met her eye, “all due respect, Ambassador, but you know where we are. With enough money, you can get anything done.”

It was really Carrillo’s superiors that needed convincing. Lord knows that he would go after one of the narcos at the mere offer, but the men above him kept a tight leash; equally afraid of his recklessness and motivated by the promise of American dollars. Luckily, their plea to the Ambassador was heard, and she was able to make the calls and promises needed to get Carrillo and his unit assigned to man a roadblock along one of the main roads to Bogotá. 

A few hours later they were back in the Jeep and on their way to the proposed meeting point along a mountain road an hour or two outside of Medellín. Javier had offered to drive this time around, knowing that this long of a trip behind the wheel would be hell for his partner. The drive toward the coast was always quite pleasant; growing up in Texas, America really, gave Javier a deep appreciation for hours out on the road warmed by the sun and filled with idle chatter. He took the time to point out the little towns and other sights they passed to Murphy since they flew to Medellín the last time. 

Driving toward the coast also meant that in the spots where their radio had reception, more and more of the stations played the _salsa_ music that Javier loved. Laredo, where he had grown up, was a small border town that only boasted one dance hall— a large, open room with a small stage at the back that hosted everything from weddings and _quinciañeras_ to livestock auctions— and saw little other than the line dances that were a blend of Mexican folk and square-dancing. But while in college, groups would take regular trips into Houston or sometimes Dallas to visit the clubs there on the weekend. One particular night, a pretty young man clad in tight flared jeans and a loud shirt left unbuttoned had swaggered up to the table where Javier was sat with some of his classmates, and instead of chatting up one of the girls, had grabbed Javier’s wrist and dragged him to dance. He was beautiful, with big brown eyes and wild curls and he had shown Javier how to dance _salsa_ and then later made him see stars pressed up against the door to a half-lit bathroom stall. 

As the Jeep climbed its way to the top of yet another hillside the familiar joyous horns and mesmerizing rhythm of the _congas_ and _claves_ began to filter in through the radio. Javier shifted from where he had been driving with one elbow resting on the windowsill to tap his cigarette ash out of the crack in the window and reached to turn up the volume, smiling at the memory. He glanced to take in Murphy, who had reclined his seat back and was laying there, eyes closed and enjoying the warm sun filtering in through the windshield. Not napping through— never napping, always “shutting his eyes.” Javier chuckled. _Viejito._

He never could resist a little bit of trouble. “You ever go dancing, Murphy?”

His partner straightened some, blinking his eyes open against the brightness of the day, and squinted over at Javier, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“Back in Miami, I mean. I’ve heard that there’s a pretty intense nightlife there— you ever go out dancing?”

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed. “I’m too damn gangly for that shit,” he paused, running a hand over his mustache, “of course, there was always square dancing at most events back home, but anyone with legs and the ability to follow what the caller says can do that.”

“I thought you mentioned playing sports growing up,” Javier countered.

“Yeah, being able to pitch a baseball and dance are two entirely different types of coordination, jackass.”

He turned to meet Murphy’s eye where he reclined, looking exasperated by the line of questioning. Truly, one day Javier’s self-destructive streak would be his downfall. “We should go sometime,” he suggested with forced nonchalance.

“Not gonna happen,” Murphy sputtered and at Javier’s questioning look, continued on. “I don’t know how to dance dude. Plus I’m not going to go to a club for you to immediately abandon me for some pretty young thing and leave me stuck at the bar the whole night.”

“You’d be there with me— I wouldn’t leave you, Murphy, I’m a gentleman. I could teach you how to _salsa._ Then you could teach Connie as a romantic gesture or something if you guys are ever in a tough spot.

“We’ve been in a tough spot since we stepped foot in Colombia,” he sighed, shifting to lean his elbow on the center console and rubbing his temple. “But yeah, she might like that.”

 _Yeah, I bet she would._ “Next time you feel like blowing off some steam, just let me know.”

“Wait, you’re actually serious, aren’t you,” he said in disbelief, eyebrows raised, and watched as Javier nodded from the driver’s seat. A small smile grew on his face, and he chuckled, “alright, Peña, I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

They arrived about an hour or so later, Peña parking along the side of the dirt road about a mile or so away from where the CNP had set up the checkpoint— it was a bit difficult to be inconspicuous with a giant American-made vehicle within view. Steve followed alongside Peña as they trekked up to the site and found Carrillo to hand him the cash his superiors had been promised and check in with the current situation.

His partner strode up to Carrillo, shaking his hand and then clapping him on the shoulder. He shifted back on his heels and rested his hands on his hips. _“¿Cómo están las cosas?”_

“We’re doing well. Just finished setting up and received radio confirmation that _Poison_ and a few others had been spotted leaving the outskirts of Medellín close to an hour ago,” Carrillo answered in his clipped military fashion. He shifted his weight, taking in Steve, and then turned back to meet Peña’s eye. _“¿Carne fresca otra vez?”_

Steve kept his mouth shut. He knew about the nickname Carrillo had given him, knew that his presence wasn’t wanted. Sure, the slight pissed him off, but this man was one of their only reputable contacts and quite successful in taking down narcos, not to mention his partner’s friend. They couldn’t afford to lose him. If Steve had to keep a stiff upper lip until Carrillo finally trusted him then so be it.

Peña fixed Carrillo with a hard look and waved him off, continuing on. He pulled the envelope filled with cash out of the inner pocket of his jacket and offered it to him. “We come bearing gifts, courtesy of _Tío Sam.”_

Carrillo eyed the envelope with open disgust and then grabbed it reluctantly. “You would hope that the mere mention of the narcos would spur action. I guess that’s too much to ask nowadays,” he sighed.

Steve looked around, taking in the setup. It seemed like the CNP was using the area immediately encircling a local's roadside fruit stand for the block, and that was pretty much it. A couple of armed men lined the road and were stopping cars that drove past to check identification. He shifted back toward Carrillo and crossed his arms. “Excuse me for saying so,” he paused, glancing around at the surroundings, “but this isn’t much of a roadblock, is it?”

“Well, if the roadblock is too obvious, Pablo can be tipped off by a cop or by a passerby, who knows,” he added, trailing off as he followed Steve’s eye line. 

Steve paused, letting that sink in. _Jesus Christ._ “Can anybody in this country keep a secret?” Next to him, Peña smirked and shook his head.

Carrillo carried on, aware of the irony of the situation but too far entrenched in the realities of fighting against the narcos to still find any humor in it. “I’ve got a spotter set up about four kilometers away. He’s gonna let us know when _Poison_ passes. “

Peña straightened up, cutting in. “You’re gonna let us question them, right,” he emphasized, “because we need to—”

 _“Poison’s_ killed three of my men already,” he all but snarled, taking a step forward. “If I catch him alive, you guys can question him here. Then, you guys gotta go.” He marched off toward where his men were gathered leaving the implication of his words to hang in the air. 

Steve took a deep breath. That was probably as good as they were going to get, as he and Peña had little authority— legal or otherwise— to call the shots on what happened to Colombian citizens on Colombian soil, especially during a CNP-lead assignment. 

Peña seemingly had the same thought, shrugging and nodding over to the little fruit stand. “C’mon, we’ve probably got some time before this thing goes down. I’ll see if the person who owns the stall is around and buy us some fruit.”

Steve followed him over to the little wooden shack, leaning up against one of the low half-walls while his partner ducked inside to haggle fruit prices. He closed his eyes against the sun, enjoying its warmth while listening to the chatter of the men around him. This high up it always felt a bit cold— then again he had lived his entire life in Tennessee and then Miami. Nevertheless, he savored the heat when it came. 

Peña returned, a couple of pieces of fruit in his hands. “You ever miss Texas?” Steve asked, blinking his eyes back open and tracking his partner’s movements.

He froze for a moment then recovered, moving to place the fruit on top of the flat surface of the wall and gestured for Stave to take a piece. “That’s a bit of a loaded question.”

“I mean the heat. Always gotta bring a coat here with all the damn mountains.”

“Well, I certainly don’t miss the sweat,” he muttered and grabbed a round, orange piece. 

Steve moved to follow suit but paused when he picked up the fruit. _What the hell?_ “Dude, you picked out some shitty oranges.”

“That’s because they’re not oranges, dumbass,” he smirked up at Steve through his sunglasses. “They’re called _granadillas._ A bit similar to passionfruit, if that helps,” he explained, knowing damn well that went little in the way of assisting Steve.

“How the hell do you even eat it,” Steve questioned, rapping his knuckle against the outer skin of the fruit. “It’s hard. Sounds hollow.”

“First you have to crack it,” Peña instructed, holding the granadilla in his hand and striking the area near the stem forcefully against the corner of their makeshift countertop. He pulled it back, showing the now indented shell. “Then you can start to peel off a section so you can get to the fruit.” Moving his thumbs to either side of the indentation, he began to pull until the skin ripped, revealing white flesh similar to that of an orange surrounding a greenish sort of sac. “You can get rid of the piece of shell you pull off, and it should open up the middle part that holds the seeds,” he explained and held up his work for Steve to see. Fully opened up, the granadilla was filled with seeds, each covered in a plump fleshy pulp. “Now you just kinda—“

Steve watched as Peña brought the granadilla up to his face and noisily slurped a mouthful of the fruit, feeling a heat rise to the back of his neck and color the high points of his cheeks.

“Some people will chew the seeds,” he added, and Steve tracked the pink of his tongue as it darted out to lick the juice from his bottom lip, “but I just swallow them.” 

Steve opened his mouth to change the subject, suggest that they maybe check back in with Carrillo, but the words died in his throat as Peña lifted the fruit and sucked down more of the seeds, watching Steve as he waited for him to speak. 

He stood there, dumbstruck, feeling his face turn even hotter and his head go light but unable to break the strange tension that had suddenly formed. Peña lowered the granadilla and stared back in some sort of challenge that Steve didn’t quite understand. 

“Uh—” he managed to stammer out before being cut off by the loud staticky sound of a message coming in over the radio and Carillo quickly striding over to where they were leaned up against the stand. 

“We have visual confirmation. Four kilometers away,” he announced, giving a quick glance between the two men and fixing Peña with an imperceptible look before turning away to shout orders to the men that had sprung into action. 

Peña gathered up the remains of the fruit and tossed the rind into the trees nearby, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Showtime,” he breathed out with a wink and moved to wait inside of the stall. 

Steve stood there and ran his hand over his face, exhaling deeply to compose himself, and then turned to follow his partner. _What the fuck was that?_

* * *

They waited for nearly an hour, eventually moving out of the fruit stand to sit on some hay bales alongside the road to help keep an eye out for the _sicarios_ , but nothing came. Javier kicked at some of the loose straw, watching as Murphy cut notches into a stick he had picked up with his pocket knife. 

As yet another car passed through the roadblock Carrillo turned on his heel and walked over, looking frustrated. _“Hijueputa._ I’m calling this off. Nobody’s coming.”

They stood to meet him, Murphy shoving his hands into the pockets of his Wranglers and looking around at the scene. “What the fuck has happened here,” he questioned, voice laced with disbelief. Distrust. 

“Maybe _Poison_ spotted the spotter,” Javier reasoned. 

“Either that or Suárez sold you out,” Carrillo pointed out, locking eyes with him. 

He sighed, glancing over to where Murphy stood, looking exhausted. “Yeah, if he did, he must’ve had a better offer, and it wasn’t a fucking cat.”

Carrillo shrugged then turned and walked back to his men, waving over his shoulder and leaving the two men standing in silence. Javier turned to Murphy and nodded toward where the Jeep was parked. “C’mon. We’ve got a long drive back.” 

As they walked, Javier could feel his dejection over the no-show mount into anger he could feel rising throughout his entire body. A failure like this always hit hard when the DEA already had to fight tooth and nail for every dollar of funding they received and for approval of any of their assignments. It felt like a waste. But this was worse. This let down his partner as well. Sure, the prospect of taking down a top-level enforcer had been enticing— that alone should have earned them a green flag for the mission with Carrillo— but he had been so persistent with this one because of Steve. He wanted to make him feel safe, give him one less thing to worry about, and show him that if you played the game right, things could actually get done down here. Instead, this had likely instilled a distrust of their informants and of the system in his partner— maybe even a distrust of Javier as well. 

They reached the car and Javier slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. _"_ _Fuck,"_ he yelled, striking the heel of his palm against the wheel. He slumped forward, letting his face rest in his hands as he rubbed at his temples, then reached out to blindly grope for the pack of cigarettes that was tucked into his coat pocket. His searching was interrupted by a tentative hand placed on his wrist.

“Javi?”

Javier looked up, eyes wide. His mental spiral immediately halted at the sound of his name spoken with such worry and care. 

“Listen, man,” Murphy said, his voice deep and gentle, “I just wanted to thank you for putting such an effort into all of this.” He gave Javier’s arm a small squeeze before resting his hands on his knees. “I’ll be honest, the move down here has been difficult even without the personal threat. So I appreciate you stickin’ your neck out for me.”

“I just wish this one could’ve been a win,” sighed deeply, regaining his composure. He lifted his eyes to meet Murphy’s kind gaze. “Sure feels like we’re due for one.”

“We’ll get there,” Murphy waved dismissively. “Like you said, nobody is dumb enough to purposely go after a DEA agent. Connie’ll be fine— we both will. Besides, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. I say we target Escobar himself, figure out all this politician bullshit he’s been getting into.”

Javier ran his hand through his hair, finally pulling out one of the cigarettes he had been searching for and lighting it. Murphy was right. The only way to stay afloat was to keep moving. There was no room for stagnation when the men they were after were so damn slippery. “I bet that if Suárez was able to get himself an even bigger payout then what the _sicarios_ had been moving was important. Possibly related to Escobar’s campaign,” he reasoned. 

“Exactly.”

Javier flashed Murphy a small smile, grateful, and then shifted the Jeep into drive. He pulled back onto the dirt road that would return them to the capital. “Well,” he continued, “maybe if we make it back to Bogotá quickly we’ll at least be able to beat Carrillo’s report and make it out of the office before Noonan tears us a new one.”

Steve laughed from where he had resumed his reclined position, “book it, Javi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay!!! chapter two!!! this one was a bit of a doozy— I originally had another scene or two planned out, but they're getting pushed to the next chapter because this was quickly becoming a monster lmao
> 
> a couple of shoutouts to people on this chapter... first, the salsa dancing scene was inspired by thatguynguyen's fic "If Tomorrow Never Comes", which is essentially 9k of steve wanting to dance with javi and I couldn't recommend it more. go read it if you haven't already!!
> 
> also, thank you to my sister in law for explaining to me what a granadilla is, and to this youtube video for showing me how to properly consume them: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rleaIwC3GhQ 
> 
> I have a newfound respect for the amount of research that goes into writing fics. I'm pretty sure that I could give a 20 min presentation on the history and cultural dispersion of salsa music after this chapter
> 
> anyways! thanks for reading this chapter, I hope you enjoy! comments and feedback are still very much appreciated :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll have regular notes at the end, but I feel like I wanted to address (especially for this chapter) that in this house we love connie! like I said before, this fic is going to generally follow the plot of the show, and I want to stay true to the emotional struggles they go through, which means that she's here and will feature a couple of brief times. i have a plan for dealing with her and steve's marriage, which will differ from the show, obviously, but I just wanted to let y'all know that I love her dearly and she will be treated with the kindness and love she deserves. I actually have a small one-off fic planned with our fave ot3, so be on the lookout for that sometime as well ;))
> 
> anyways! here's more of the boys ♡

They later learned that Javier has been correct in his suspicions about their failed attempt at catching _Poison_ — the trip had indeed been related to Escobar’s recent political initiatives, confirmed by Suárez himself. In a piss-poor bid at an apology (or possibly as an attempt at humor, Javier was never quite sure with the man), he had brought a dirty, likely flea-ridden street cat in a bag to their meeting. _“Es un regalo para la esposa del gringo,”_ he explained, holding up the scrawny creature. 

Suárez had handed over tapes from calls detailing the three million dollar payout to a man named Fernando Duque, a lobbyist for the New Liberal Party. The deal had seemingly eventually gone through despite the roadblock’s intervention as evidenced by Escobar’s subsequent announced bid for office, running as an alternate to the party’s frontrunner for a seat in _el Congreso de La República._

When the news broke late one evening, Noonan called an emergency meeting with Javier and Murphy in her office at the embassy. A pile of Escobar’s campaign flyers laid strewn on her desk, and the small rollaway television in the corner of the room flickered from where it was showing the nightly news. 

She grabbed three glasses and a bottle of whiskey from the small bar and crossed the room, offering it to the two agents. “We cannot let Colombia become a narco state,” she stated forcefully. “The New Liberal ticket is far ahead in the polls, and we all know that once Ortega wins he will “retire” to let Escobar step in. We need to find someone who can prove this guy is a drug dealer. Let’s stop his campaign before it truly starts.” 

Javier took one of the offered glasses and thoughtfully took a sip, enjoying the deep smoky flavor. _So this was the stuff that Washington paid for_. “No one will go on record.” Beside him, Murphy waved off the whiskey, nodding along to his words. “I’ve got a better idea,” he announced, leaning forward to place his tumbler on the desk in front of him. “We let him win. If we put him in the spotlight and then prove he’s a trafficker, the embarrassment alone might get this country off its ass.”

Murphy gestured in agreement. “Now we’ve just gotta get proof. Easier said than done when the son of a bitch has just about every cop paid off in Medellín.”

This proved to be true as over the next few days Javier and Murphy tried to track down the men who might have access to the evidence they were after. They had been able to find an initial lead— whispers that Escobar had been arrested back in ‘76 for small-scale trafficking. It hadn’t amounted to much after the arresting officers ended up dead and a local judge put a stop to the case, but the man had been booked, which meant that there was a mugshot of the arrest somewhere. However, as they systematically worked down the list of officials that might have access to this photo, more and more men turned up killed in what were being reported as “accidents”. The journalists that had reported on the arrest, the lawyer that had defended Pablo in court, there didn’t seem to be an end to it as the man attempted to cover his tracks. Tensions reached a head when Javier and Murphy pulled up to a pretty, semi-suburban apartment complex where the judge that had signed the initial arrest warrant lived, only to find its smoldering ruins being tended to by the fire department. 

Javier sat forward in the passenger seat and ran his fingers over his mustache then his temple, rubbing to relieve the pressure that was rapidly building there. “We gotta get something on this motherfucker. If there ever was a mugshot,” he paused, pointing to the remains of the apartment, “I think it's safe to assume its now gone too.”

Murphy pulled the Jeep to a stop in the corner of the parking lot and then leaned back in his seat, resting his elbow up on the windowsill, and looked over at Javier. “If there was a photo,” he mused, angling his head, “there’s a negative. I would bet the photographer keeps most of them in his records.”

Javier turned to meet his eye, “I knew that photography obsession of yours would come in handy someday.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's literally a part of my job description, asshole.”

“Sure, sure. _Claro que sí,”_ Javier laughed, flashing his partner a wink. He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and nudged Murphy with his elbow, offering him one. They sat, smoking, watching the firefighters struggle to douse the remaining parts of the building that were still burning. 

“Javi,” Murphy breathed, his voice questioning, “do you think this is the right way of going about things? The election, I mean—”

“Murphy, those men’s deaths aren't on us,” Javier cut in. “That’s on Escobar, and all the cops who just sell each other out for the promise of a payout.”

“Not even that. Just, do you think we’re going about this the right way?”

He paused, crossing his arms over his chest, and fixed his gaze on the scene in front of him. “I don’t know. But someone’s gotta answer for allowing him this far, and I think it should be the officials who took his money and opened the goddamn door. Of course he’s leading in the polls, the people have been kept in the dark. Who wouldn’t vote for a man who comes into the _comunas_ and hands out wads of cash when you're living on fucking pennies a week. But no one will tell them he’s also the one disappearing their sons and bringing death to their doorstep,” he spat. Javier took a deep breath, feeling his cigarette burn down to his fingertips, and tossed the butt out the open window. He grabbed another, lighting it, and took a deep inhale. “Sorry,” he muttered, angling his exhale. “Didn’t mean to snap.” He turned toward his partner to see the man already watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Murphy shifted, turning the keys to start the engine back up, and then glanced over at Javier. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?”

Javier tilted his head in question, thrown off by the abrupt change of subject and not quite trusting what might come out of his mouth if he opened it. 

“C’mon, by the time we track down the name of the photographer, get him to the embassy for protection, and work through all the paperwork it’s gonna be damn late,” he reasoned as he pulled the Jeep back out of the lot, headed back to their office to sort through the files they had gotten faxed from stations in Medellín over the past few days. “Connie said she was gonna make something tonight, so there’ll already be food ready and you won’t have to worry about it.”

Javier shook his head, “I wouldn’t want to impose on her—”

“She’s from a big family dude, whenever she cooks it's way too much. You’d be doing us both a favor getting rid of some of it,” he insisted with a smirk.

He sighed, the principle of never turning down a free meal having been drilled into him since childhood. “Yeah, sure, I’ll join you. Thanks.” 

* * *

It _was_ damn late when they finally finished up at the embassy. Luckily they had been able to find the name of the mugshot’s photographer, locate where he lived, and whisk the man away to safety at the embassy— finally a step ahead of Escobar. But it had taken hours to record statements, assign some office lackeys to hunt down the photo negatives and grab the man's belongings, file paperwork, and get him to a hotel where he would be under protection for the foreseeable future. 

By the time they reached their apartment building, the sun had long since slinked below the horizon and a cool breeze had come in its absence. Javier followed Murphy through the front door, feeling strange when, instead of rounding the corner to descend the stairs to his basement apartment, he followed his partner up to the second floor. 

Murphy stopped in front of one of the doors and fished his keys out of his back pocket, unlocking it and shouldered his way in. “Hey baby, I’m back,” he called out in the direction of where Connie could be heard moving around in the kitchen. “Javi’s gonna stay for dinner,” he added, moving to drape his windbreaker on the back of a chair. 

Connie poked her head out from around the corner, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Hi Steve,” she said with a grin, and then turned to greet Javier from where he was still hovering in the doorway, feeling out of place. She walked over to him, hand outstretched and he couldn’t help but be swept up in her presence. Pretty blonde waves that framed her face, a warm, bright smile, and a spark in her eyes that revealed a fierceness underneath: she and Murphy made a handsome couple. 

“It's so nice to finally meet you, Javier,” she said as she shook his hand. She angled her head in the direction of the kitchen, looking between the two men. “Food is just about done if you want to get the table ready.” She turned, heading back, and called out over her shoulder, “can I get you anything to drink, Javi?”

“I’ll just take water, thanks,” he answered, shuffling his feet. 

Murphy reached out and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “He likes whiskey,” he called out to her as she rounded the corner. “C’mon, if you wanna act all polite come help me set the table.”

Dinner ended up being... _nice_. Relaxing, even. Javier had forgotten what this was like— friends, community, being able to sit down and truly forget about the world they lived in. Settled around the small circular table tucked into the corner of their living room, enjoying the meal that Connie had made, listening to their happy idle chatter, and occasionally joining in to help her poke fun at Murphy— Javier felt at home. Like he belonged. 

As the meal was rounding up, Connie turned to look at Javier with a smile and rested her palm on the back of his hand where it was loosely grasping the tumbler holding his last sips of whiskey. He met her eye, and she was smiling kindly at him. “Thank you for looking out for my husband, Javier. I feel a lot safer knowing you’ve got his back out there.” 

He smiled back, feeling the weight of her words settle over him, and set his glass down to squeeze her hand in reassurance. 

She turned to where Murphy was hunched over his plate, using his index finger to swipe up some of the tomato sauce from the lasagna they had eaten, and rolled her eyes, giggling gently. “And just let me know if he ever gives you trouble at work— I’ll whip him into shape.”

Javier glanced over to where Steve had paused mid-lick to watch the interaction. He had a few specks of the red sauce on his lip and Javier fought the instinct to lean over and wipe them off. “Likewise,” he said with a wink, angling his head back at her.

“Hey now,” Steve interjected, pointing his finger between the two of them, “I didn’t invite Javi over just for y’all to get all chummy and gang up on me, now.” A slow smile spread across his face. 

“Listen, man,” Javier drawled, “it’s not my fault that you’re a pain in the ass or that your wife finds me charming,” he added with a shrug, leaning back in his chair.

“He has a point,” Connie agreed, meeting his eye and failing to suppress a giggle. 

Steve’s eyebrows shot up and he fixed his face with a look of incredulity. “You’re supposed to be on _my_ side!”

She pushed away from the table, standing up, and started to collect the dishes that had accumulated. “Always and forever, baby. Now, how about you help _me_ out and grab some of these dishes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve sighed. He leveled an unimpressed look at Javier before standing up and gathering dishes himself. As he walked past with plates stacked in one hand, he flicked the side of Javier’s face. “Just can’t resist a little trouble, can you?”

Javier shook his head, smiling, and sipped the last bit of his whiskey, enjoying the warmth of the liquid and his contentedness from the night seep into his bones. It had been years since he had last done something like this— it wasn’t like he was friendly with any of the people at the embassy. Even Carrillo, a man who he trusted, respected, and even considered a friend, worked hard to keep his home and work lives separate. It was understandable, really, in their line of work, but after three years of working together the most he had seen of Carrillo’s wife was in the family portrait he kept on his desk. Didn’t know a damn _thing_ about any of the small children in the photograph, either.

Of course Murphy, being the sweet, home-grown kind of guy he was, would bring him into his life outside of work. Hot-headed too— after the initial shock and worry of _Poison’s_ warning wore off he seemed more pissed than anything, unwilling to let the _sicario’s_ threat have its desired effect. If there were any eyes on the apartment, inviting over Javier was a direct _fuck you._ Not that Javier could weigh any judgment. The same criticism had been hurled his way countless times. Plus, those rare bursts of white-hot rage from his typically understated demeanor are what continued to draw Javier to the man. They were invigorating, keeping them motivated in what sometimes felt like a zero-sum game at work. They were _addicting_ , too, and Javier wondered what it would feel like to have them directed toward himself. 

He sighed, shaking off that train of thought. 

It had also been such an honor to meet Connie. She was a force to be reckoned with— there was a strength in her smile and words. Javier could easily imagine the kind of nurse she had been back in the ER in Miami, the kind of volunteer she was now in the nearby church, the kind of wife she is to Steve. Trust was a difficult commodity to come by in his life, but it felt especially sacred to be handed Connie’s love and concern for her husband and asked to keep it safe. It was heady being given such a responsibility.

Javier smiled to himself, rubbing the back of his neck, and then gathered his glass and headed toward the kitchen, deciding to help clean up where he could. He started to round the corner and then stopped as he took in the sight of Steve pressed up against Connie’s back while she rinsed off glasses at the sink, arms around her waist and resting his chin on the top of her head. They swayed gently to the record that Murphy had set on at the beginning of dinner that could just barely be heard this deep in the apartment. They looked content, _beautiful_ together. 

All at once the familiar sense of solitude came rushing back into Javier’s awareness, settling deep and dark in the pit of his stomach. He could be trusted to protect Steve— but always from the outside looking in. He wasn’t his to hold on to. He wasn’t a part of _this._

Connie turned around in his arms and stood on the tips of her toes to gently kiss him, pulling back and laughing. “You’ve got sauce on your cheek, you dork,” she smiled and raised her hand to wipe away the redness with the pad of her thumb. As she did, she caught sight of Javier standing in the doorway and nodded her head toward her husband, “you see this, Javi?” 

He leaned forward, placing his glass on the countertop beside them. “It’s a damn shame he only eats sandwiches for lunch. I miss out on all of this,” he forced out with a smirk before stepping back, shoving his hands into his back pockets. “I think I’m gonna head out. Still have some files to go over tonight and it’s getting late.”

Connie’s eyebrows knit together as she looked at Javier questioningly. “Are you sure? I was just about to bring out some fruit for dessert.”

“Yeah Javi,” Murphy added from where he now stood leaning against the counter. “You can bring the documents over here and I can help take a look at them.”

He shook his head, “enjoy the rest of the night with your wife, Murphy. I’ll read over things and fill you in tomorrow.” He met Connie’s eye and flashed her what he hoped was a look of gratitude. “Thank you for having me,” he said and then nodded at his partner before turning on his heel and heading back to his apartment. 

“Night, Javi,” he heard Steve murmur over his shoulder.

* * *

The next morning found them back in Noonan’s office, bright and early and squeezed into suits: Javi in that godawful tan one he’d likely had since at least ‘75— but somehow managed to still look okay in— and Steve in navy. Steve leaned against one of the ornate oak cabinets that lined the walls of the Ambassador’s office and listened as she presented the arrest photos he and Javi had managed to track down to the Colombian Minister of Justice. 

“Your party took money from Escobar,” she pressed. “I should think you’d want to get ahead of this information.”

The Minister scoffed. “Everyone took money. By the way,” he added, leaning forward in his seat, “it was all American money, so why don’t you take this to the press?”

“You’re the Minister of Justice,” she responded with an air of finality. 

He sighed, running a hand over his face and grabbed the documents off of the low table separating them. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said and stood, eyeing the agents as he walked out of the office. 

“I think that went as well as it could have,” Steve murmured once the door had closed behind the Minister. Beside him, Javi shifted uncomfortably. He had looked tense since abruptly leaving the apartment last night. Probably starting to feel the pressure of this plan. The election was coming up in a few days and the Ortega/Escobar ticket would likely win. If this Minister didn’t step up and put his career, and frankly, his life, on the line then Pablo Escobar would hold genuine political authority and pinning anything on him would become exponentially more difficult. Not to mention the damage that someone like him with access to state-level power could do. Steve nudged his partner. “You ok, man?”

Javi looked up, blinking. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a lot riding on him doing the right thing.” He paused and looked toward the door. “I’m gonna go take a smoke,” he said and walked out, leaving Steve standing in Noonan’s office. 

“Don’t worry,” the Ambassador assured from where she was still seated. “He’s always been moody like that. Part of what makes him so damn difficult to work with, besides his penchant for spending tax dollars on those women,” she reasoned, looking unimpressed. “He’s not as slick as he thinks,” she added, seeing Steve bristle. 

“Yeah, well, let's just hope Minister Lara moves on this quickly.”

* * *

Luckily, they didn’t have to wait very long. Within a few days, votes had been counted and Jairo Ortega was certified as the winner of his congressional race. The dominoes fell quickly after that. Ortega stepped down, making room for Pablo and on his first day in Congress, Lara presented the evidence provided by the DEA. 

Pablo refuted the claims, but by that point, his political career was over: it was hard to argue against such strong photographic evidence. However, Lara didn’t stop there. Over the next few weeks, he handed down multiple rulings on not only Escobar but the rest of the _Medellín_ cartel kingpins. They were fined, forced to relinquish control of their legally-owned businesses— any offense that there was sufficient evidence for they were convicted of. Being notoriously slippery, there wasn’t much, but Lara was able to remove Escobar from office and begin to turn the public opinion of these men. He accomplished more in those few weeks than the combined efforts of the CNP and the DEA had in years. 

Steve felt an unbelievable amount of gratitude toward the man. Sure, he was the Minister of Justice. Holding the narcos responsible was a part of the job he had been tasked with, and likely would have done the same much earlier if evidence weren’t continually destroyed by paid-off cops and government officials. But Steve had learned that there was sometimes an unbridgeable gap between words and action. People will tell you to do the right thing but won’t do the same once pushed to the edge. 

Lara pursuing this lead against Escobar was a win in the books for everyone— especially in the shadow of the recent election— but it also came at the cost of the Minister’s safety, and with every new regulatory measure the man took, Steve felt an increasing sense of responsibility for his well being. He even went as far as to hand-deliver protective equipment to Lara, who begrudgingly accepted and reassured him that the DEA did little other than provide the evidence while admonishing Steve’s inflated sense of influence. Still, he couldn’t help but feel as if he and Javi had started the ball rolling on a series of events that could seemingly only end badly for this brave man.

A few weeks later, Minister Lara was slated to leave Colombia on a flight headed for Czechoslovakia where, for his safety, he had been reassigned as an Ambassador. Steve and Javi were holed up in their shared office, the blinds over the glass panes that constituted the other half of the half-wall that made up three-quarters of the room pulled down so they could sip on the cheap whiskey Javi kept in the locked drawer of his desk while they read through backlogs of anonymous tips. 

Steve leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and moving to flip through yet another file. On the corner of his desk sat a small radio that was transmitting chatter from the motorcade transporting Lara to the airport. “This feels like a colossal waste of time,” he sighed, eyeing Javi where he sat at his own desk, elbow up and leaning his forehead against his closed fist.

“I’ve got a tip here from ‘78. Think that’ll get us anywhere,” Javi asked, rolling his eyes. He stood and crossed the short distance between their desks, sliding some of the framed pictures to the side so that he could sit on the corner. He leaned forward, grabbing Steve’s glass from his hand and brought it to his mouth, downing the rest of the liquid. “I say we call it quits. This is going nowhere. I can call Suárez, see if he’s got anything new.”

Steve blinked. “I was drinking that, you dick,” he protested, ignoring the heat that crept up the back of his neck— a phenomenon that seemed to be happening more often lately. _This guy’s got a serious lack of personal space._ He pushed forward. “Maybe he’s heard something about where Pablo has cooped himself up after being removed from office. Or what he’s planning. Guy like him doesn’t just go quiet for this long without—”

Steve’s mouth snapped shut as the distinct sound of automatic gunfire followed by a multitude of shouting filtered in over the radio. A worried knot instantly formed in his gut. 

In front of him, Javi ran his hand through his hair. _“Hijueputa,”_ he breathed. “I think I can guess what Escobar is up to,” he ground out, voice rough. _“Fuck.”_

* * *

They made it to the scene a couple of hours later, having gotten held up by local authorities playing jurisdictional trump cards over one another, but the absolute brutality of the scene wasn’t diminished in any way by the time that had passed. 

Steve climbed out of their shared Jeep from where Javi had parked just outside of the police line and started walking toward the scene, weaving his way through the sizable crowd that had formed. When he made it to the yellow police tape that had been hung, he waited for his partner to catch up and lifted the tape while Javi flashed credentials to the nearby officer so they could duck underneath. 

Coming face to face with the gunned-down government sedan that had been transporting the Minister dealt a punch to the gut that Steve hadn’t quite expected. Or maybe just hadn’t prepared for. Stepping closer, he peered in through the broken glass of the back window where Lara’s body lay, bloody and impossibly more bullet-riddled than the vehicle, fighting a rising wave of nausea at the sight.

Steve had seen his fair share of violence, hell he had _participated_ in his fair share of violence. It was a part of the job. But this felt needless— a good man killed whose only crime was holding the narcos accountable as best he could. And for what? Pablo was still making billions selling coke. Sure, he would never again hold public office, but what to say of all the indirect political control he held?

Steve had never felt a sense of guilt over his job before— had always been able to convince himself that in this line of work, the end justified the means. But this felt like a step too far. He felt culpable, and all at once exhausted and weary. 

He finally tore his eyes away from the body, glancing to where Javi stood hands-on-hip and looking similarly haggard. “He didn’t wear it. The vest I took him, I mean,” Steve muttered, disbelief coloring his words.

Javi sighed, nodding his head toward the vehicle. “Wouldn’t have made a difference.” 

* * *

The Colombian government responded swiftly and with a heavy hand to the assassination of Minister Lara. Later, on the night that the attack was carried out, one of the hitmen had been tracked down, arrested, and had given a confession testifying that Pablo had hired him. With that evidence, Escobar was indicted for Lara’s murder, and officials signed an extradition deal with the Ambassador. This paved the way for any of the narcos that were caught anywhere along the chain that spanned from harvesting coca leaves to delivering the product to American dealers to be arrested and spend time in an _American_ prison. Finally, they had teeth. 

The news should have been cause for celebration, and for most of the DEA department at the embassy, it was. The two older non-active agents had seemingly raided Noonan’s liquor cabinets and brought the spoils back to their department’s tiny meeting room, crowding around the small table with Javi and toasting to the newly enacted law. They were happy, relaxed; sharing stories from their earlier days as field agents and ribbing Javi over the women he slept with. 

But Steve didn’t have the heart to join in, instead wheeling out the new chalkboard chart he had been working on detailing the locations of the manufacturing labs in downtown Medellín and the jungles surrounding the outskirts of the city. Lara’s death was too recent and the guilt in his stomach too fresh to be able to celebrate this for the win that it was— this felt undeserved. So instead, he stood in front of the board, methodically adding new images that had been collected.

From behind him, Javi’s voice rang out over the idle chatter. “Murphy, join the party, huh?”

Steve ignored him and stepped back from his work, crossing his arms across his chest and taking in all of the new lab additions that had popped up in recent weeks. Despite the fines and recent public exposure, Escobar’s production was still high and seemingly only growing. He heard his partner’s boots shuffle across the linoleum and felt him crowd in beside him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Steve angled his head, flashing a quick glance back at Javi and swallowing the irritation that was quickly building. “All you guys having a good time?”

“You gotta let it go, man,” Javi breathed out. He raised his arm, pushing his half-empty glass into the center of Steve’s chest, urging him to take it. “There’s good that came out of this.”

“Yeah, we used him,” he responded, sighing deeply as he begrudgingly took the offered alcohol. He felt the weight of the past few weeks settle deeply throughout his body. “Then we got him killed—”

“No, we didn't kill him. Escobar did,” Javi declared with conviction, cutting Steve off. “And now we get to go after that motherfucker.” He stepped in closer, flashing a smirk. “Look on the bright side, huh?” he said, smacking Steve on the ass before walking back to the table. 

Steve bristled and glanced down at the glass in his hand. In one swift movement, he downed the contents and turned to join his coworkers. _Fucking Javi._

* * *

The little party ended not too long after that, each of the men having quite a bit of work to do. With extradition now on the table, more evidence needed to be gathered and compiled so that when arrests were made decisions could be handed down swiftly by judges. 

Steve was making his way through backlogs of photo negatives, trying to find anything of use on the long reels of film, thoughts blissfully drowned out by the loud clacking of Javi’s typewriter and rhythmic exhales of smoke from his cigarette. However, it was soon interrupted by a call that came through on Javi’s desk phone. 

The ring tone sounded for a couple of moments, the man continuing to type. Steve lifted his head and looked over at his partner. “You gonna answer that?”

Javi continued to type, finishing the line and hitting the carriage return before leaning over to place his cigarette in the ashtray on the corner of his desk. He picked up the phone. _“La DEA, Agente Peña,”_ he said into the receiver, flashing Steve his middle finger. 

Steve chuckled, returning the gesture. He watched as Javi stood, tucked the phone against his shoulder, and walked around to sit on the corner of his desk, nearly knocking over his cup of coffee in the process. Steve reached to steady the cup and glared up at his partner. “Hey watch it, man.”

Without missing a beat, Javi clapped the palm of his hand over Steve’s mouth and raised an index finger to his own lips in a shushing motion. The move shut him quite effectively. _“¿En Bogotá? Vamos a interrogarlo ¿o qué?”_ Pulling his hand back, Javi wrote down a time and address on the corner of one of the stacks of paper littering the desk. Steve could just pick up the voice of Carrillo, tinny and quiet through the phone. _“Listo. Nos vemos,”_ Javi said with a nod and leaned over to hang the phone back up.

“Carrillo?” Steve asked.

Javi clapped his palms on his thighs. “Yeah. He picked up a lower-level _sicario_ that was on a shipment here and brought him in. Thinks he can get him to talk, but wants us there to corroborate intel.”

Perfect. They could really use a big break. “When?”

Standing, Javi crossed the small room and grabbed their coats off of the stand near the door and turned, tossing Steve’s to him. _“Ahora. Vamos, parce.”_

The address of the station that Javi had been given was nearby and so they were able to arrive quickly. As they climbed out of the Jeep, Carrillo greeted them— clapping Javi on the shoulder and affording Steve a firm handshake and nod. _Finally moving up, then._

He showed the two agents inside the station, leading them down a dark and dusty staircase to a low-lit basement level that had seemingly once been the location of a handful of cells. 

“Intel says Pablo’s gonna be at his _finca_ called _El Bizcocho_ in the next couple of days,” Carrillo’s voice echoed off of the damp brick walls. 

Javi followed alongside, shaking his head. “The only way to surprise him is an aerial assault, then.”

“They didn’t give us a helicopter,” Steve mumbled, recognizing the name from the list of known hideouts and overhead surveillance that had been done by the Colombian Military. That particular _finca_ was fortified naturally, completely surrounded by dense jungle. 

Carrillo looked back at the two men as he led them into a larger open space. “Then we need to figure out where he’s hiding now.” He stopped and nodded toward the back of the room where a man was stripped naked and tied to hang upside down in a crouched position on a bar that was suspended from the ceiling. “Trapped a little bird. And I’m gonna make sure that he sings.”

Steve came to a stop a half-step behind Javi and took in the scene. Realistically, he knew that this sort of thing took place on their side of the law, but it still felt like a shock to the system to actually witness. “Jesus,” he muttered, following as his partner moved with Carrillo. 

“Just remember that you wanted all in,” Javi muttered over his shoulder, steeling his brow. 

They watched as Carrillo marched up to the man, motioning for the officer that had been standing watch to hand him the steaming hot cup of coffee that was in his hand and then splashed the contents onto the face of the _sicario._ He tossed the cup aside, and the sound of the metal impacting against the stone floor echoed in the empty room. Over the sound of the man gasping, Carrillo fixed the two agents with a glare, daring them to question his authority. “He already gave up the name of three _fincas,”_ he stated, turning back to the man, grabbing the hair on the back of his head and pulling hard to force his eye contact. “But, Pablo’s not gonna be at any of them. _Pero sí, sabes dónde estará escondiendo ¿o no, cierto?”_

 _Christ._ This was wrong, possibly criminal. With every drip of hot coffee that dripped from the man’s body to the floor, Steve could feel the sense of immorality seep into his bones and twist into indignation. He didn’t really have a choice on whether this happened or not. _Hell_ , they needed the intel badly. But, he didn’t have to stand around and bear witness to this. 

He turned on his heel, coming face to face with Javi and leveling him with a glare before shoulder-checking him as he started his walk back to the car. He almost hoped it would spur a fight. That maybe Javi would yell, so he could scream back. 

Anything to release the tension and emotions that had been churning for what seemed like weeks now. 

* * *

Javier had stayed for the rest of the interrogation and they had been able to get some solid intel out of the man: the location of Pablo’s main home, where he would be for the next two days before the planned trip to his home in the mountains. The proposed plan was to reconvene the next morning for a joint raid alongside Carrillo and the CNP. They knew that the moment their caravan of trucks was spotted by one of Escobar’s men he would be alerted and whisked away, but hopefully they could deal a blow to his sense of security and potentially find some left-behind traces that could be used as evidence. It was worth a shot. 

He left quickly after plans were finalized and was surprised to find Murphy still outside with the Jeep, having expected to catch a cab back to the embassy. Javier understood why he had left when Carrillo had begun interrogating the _sicario._ He himself had been similarly shell-shocked the first time he was in a similar situation. But, being alone as an agent for years had often left him without a choice as to whether he stayed or not. He had rationalized it to himself that this sort of shit was going to happen regardless— they were in constant need of new information. At least by being there he could put a stop to things if they went too far. 

He made his way back to the vehicle, crossing to the far side to climb into the driver’s seat and relayed the information that had been gleaned as well as the plan for the next morning. In between turning on the Jeep and pulling out onto the main road, Javier snuck a glance at Steve. He was slumped low in the seat, elbow up on the windowsill and his head leaned to rest on his fist. His brow was furrowed, and the skin under his eyes was stained a faint purple. He looked exhausted. Had for a couple of weeks now, really— ever since Lara was assassinated. 

Javier reached with one hand to switch on the radio, thankful for the gentle buffer it provided between himself and his obviously still-pissed partner. “You know,” he started, “I wouldn’t judge Carrillo.”

Beside him, Steve scoffed. “So now it’s okay to torture suspects with hot coffee. Noted.”

“He’s gotten a bit desperate over the years. You had a partner killed. He’s had a dozen.”

Steve sat up, indignant. “That doesn’t fucking make a difference,” he snapped. But almost immediately the fight was drained out of him. He sighed. “Sorry, I just—”

“Why don’t you come over to my place tonight,” Javier asked, cutting his partner off, hearing Connie’s words to him over dinner weeks ago echo in his mind. “Drink some of my beer, relax, give Connie a break from having to handle your mopey ass.” He smiled watching the way Murphy bristled at the description. “Besides, we’ve gotta leave early in the morning. You can sleep on my couch so you don’t wake her up.”

Steve stared out the window a moment, contemplating. “Yeah that’s probably a good idea,” he chuckled, smoothing out his mustache. “She’s a menace early in the morning.”

* * *

It was late by the time they made it back to Javier’s apartment. Having Steve in his space like this made him feel twitchy, exposed. His hand itched for a cigarette as he ushered in his partner and went about fixing dinner. He wasn’t really in the practice of playing host, per se. Sure, lots of people had made their way through his front door, but none had ever had reason or care to stay. Luckily he had found sometime earlier in the week to make a run to the market for some staples, so he could at least offer Murphy a home-cooked meal. 

“It’s not as good as anything Connie would make, but it's edible,” he joked, handing his partner a bowl of _sopa de fideo._ It was one of his favorite _comidas Tejanas_ , something he could always count on to warm the belly on nights he was feeling a bit empty and hoped it would do the same for his partner. Javier considered himself a man of action, was never great with words, so he made up for it where he could— whether that be being the one to take lead out on the streets, or in this case, offering a hot meal and some beer to a friend. 

He had learned to roll with and appreciate Steve’s moods. The man was volatile. Happy and smiling, all Americana charm one moment, and then steaming the next. It was refreshing to have someone in his life who still reacted so strongly to both the beauty and injustice of the world they were a part of. Seeing him so despondent the past few weeks had felt wrong, especially knowing that Javier’s own cavalier attitude toward Lara’s death and Carrillo’s violence hadn’t helped in the slightest. He hoped Steve could see this as the apology it was meant to be. 

The man seemingly had few complaints, at least where the food was concerned, digging into the soup and even going back for seconds. “What? I’m a growing boy,” he laughed at Javier’s surprised look. 

Afterward, the two men found themselves on the couch, nursing beers, half-watching the _fútbol_ match that was being broadcast, loud and staticky on the small television set— the irony being that both teams were owned by _narcos_ — and half-talking about whatever inane topic crossed their minds. It was nice, simple. Steve looked content, from the glances that Javier kept sneaking. The sight settled warm in his chest.

At the halfway point of the match, Javier stretched and then stood. “I’m gonna grab another beer and wash up. You want another?”

Murphy held up his bottle in a mock toast, nodding. “Yes sir,” he drawled, his voice deep and crackling from the late hour. 

Javier walked up the set of half-steps to the kitchen and set about cleaning up from dinner. Not leaving messes to sit was yet another habit that had become deeply ingrained growing up on the farm. He hadn’t seen his _Papá_ in years, but every time he saw a pot or pan left out on the counter Javier could hear his voice scolding. 

He finished, hung up the towel, stepped over to the fridge to grab more beers, and then moved back to the living room. 

“I think when the match ends I’m gonna call it a night, man,” he called out, descending the last few stairs to the lower level. “You and I both know Carrillo won’t wait up for us if we’re—”

His voice faded off as he looked up to find Murphy sprawled out and asleep on the couch, head tucked against his shoulder and limbs askew. Javier huffed out a quiet laugh to himself as he set the bottles down on the low table in the middle of the room. Their job had a penchant for fucking good people up, changing them, but he doubted that Steve would ever grow out of this habit. He’d always be his _viejito_. 

Quietly, Javier shuffled out of the room and returned with a spare blanket he had tracked down. He gingerly laid the material over the man, trying to envelop as much of his body as possible— which was a losing game— and debated trying to wake him up so he could shift into a more comfortable position. But, looking down at Steve’s face and seeing him relaxed and content made him decide against it. If he needed painkillers in the morning, Javier had it covered. 

Taking one last glance, Javier pulled himself away and climbed the short flight of stairs to check the locks on the front door and then padded back through the living room toward his bedroom. As he crossed through the doorway, he reached behind him to turn off the light behind him, and from the couch came a groggy, muffled voice. 

“Night, Javi.”

Javier stopped, looking where the voice came from in the darkness, and smiled to himself. “Night, Steve, _que duerma bien.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop whoop three whole chapters??! would y'all believe when I originally set out to write this I envisioned it maybe being 10k in total? lmao....
> 
> sorry this chapter took a little while to publish!! in fun personal news my dissertation project got approved (which was what had me quite busy the past couple weeks)! yay! 
> 
> keen-eyed readers will notice that I'm taking a bit of a reroute from canon here. this chapter covers a LOT of plotty bits, but I essentially picked and chose which parts to keep that I think are most relevant to steve and javi and their relationship growth. like for example, I'm not going to cover the whole elisa plot, as that would take a bunch of time (and I want to get on to more fun stuff), and I think that part of the story was ultimately most emotionally relevant for connie, as she started to relate to elisa and become disillusioned with steve's work. ANYWAYS, just didnt want yall to be like huh?? what happened to that bit?
> 
> ok and finally...did y'all see those pics that pedro and boyd posted???? all I'm saying is that I think the boys are canon now. those photos and your comments fueled me to try and get through this kind of exposition-y chapter ♡♡


End file.
